by Dee White
Just next to the front door is a table with a half-drunk cup of coffee that still has steam rising from it. The coffee’s black and thick like tar.
I press the doorbell and wait, but can’t hear anything coming from inside the house. Not even the sound of the bell. Must be disconnected. There’s a brown security door that has mesh so thick that you can’t see through it.
I hear footsteps on wooden boards. I feel like a piano accordion with all the air squeezed out. She’s here. I’m going to see my mother for the first time in ten years. All I’ve wanted to do since I found out she wasn’t dead is to find her; ask her why she never came back; why she never even tried to visit. Find out about her – her painting – what she’s really like. In the back of my mind is all that stuff Dave told me about her and the newspaper articles about those times she left me. She sounded fine on the phone. Not happy, not sad, not strange, not surprised: almost like she expected me to call.
The footsteps disappear. My stomach does a leap. I follow the verandah around the house, looking through windows. There are no lights on inside, but she has to be there. She knew I was coming – she invited me. And I heard her walking through the house.
Where is she? I knock hard on the door. No answer. I look at my watch. “Damn!” I knock harder. Still no answer. There’s a metal echidna shoe scraper near the front door. I pick it up and use it to rap as loudly as I can. It’s heavy. After three knocks I have to put it down again. Whoever is in that house must have heard me. My stomach is a blender, mixing everything together at high speed. Why won’t she answer the door? Is she having one of her episodes? Another breakdown? Maybe she never got well? Is she lying to me too? Did she stay away because of Dave or because she never really loved me?
I want to pick up that stupid shoe scraper and toss it through the window. That would get a reaction. Does that make me crazy?
I fling my backpack on the ground. The zip splits open and my life over the last ten years spills out – all the stuff I chose so carefully to show Mum. Talk about an anticlimax. All this expectation for nothing – nothing but the hurt of knowing that no matter what she said on the phone, she doesn’t really want me.
I should leave, head back to the station. But I have a right to be here. She’s my mother. And I haven’t done anything wrong. I feel the mug. The coffee’s hot. I’m sure she’s inside. Why is she stuffing me around?
“I’m not going without seeing you,” I yell. I look around, expecting to see neighbours peering over the fence, but there’s no sign of anyone.
How can I make her show herself? I walk back up the stone path to the driveway and across to the shed. Maybe she’s there, painting. I know this doesn’t really make sense because the footsteps came from inside the house, but I don’t know what else to do.
I knock on a side door but nobody answers. It’s locked. I walk around the back to what looks like the shed’s main entrance. It takes both hands to open the heavy sliding door.
I walk around, looking at her half-finished paintings. It makes me think of something I read that Leonardo said, “I have offended God and mankind because my work didn’t reach the quality it should have.”
Perhaps it’s part of being a great talent – you never think that what you do is good enough – or complete.
My heart thumps as I look at Mum’s paintings. They are amazing! The one I like best is a huge orange fireball on a black background. It looks hot and fierce, the way the anger against Dave still feels inside me. Wonder if he’s the motivation behind this painting.
A white cat peeps from behind an easel.
I crouch down and call softly, “Here, puss.”
She creeps out cautiously, followed by two tiny kittens that mew as they run after her. When they get close to me, they start spitting.
“It’s all right. Don’t be scared,” I whisper.
I pat the mother cat and she rubs against me purring. My legs cramp up, so I stand. When I look down again, the cats are gone. I start to wonder if they were really there in the first place.
I walk out through the sliding door and back towards the front of the house. I take out my mobile phone and dial Mum’s number. The phone rings inside, but she doesn’t pick up. I wait for it to ring out. Try three times. I’m starting to think that even if she came to the front door and told me to go away, that would be better than the silence. Then at least I would have seen her.
I call Troy. “She’s here,” I tell him. “But she won’t let me in.”
“You’re kidding?”
I kick the dirt. “I can’t believe I’ve come all this way and now she won’t even answer the door. She must know I’m here.”
“What kind of game is she playing?”
I kick the dirt harder. “Probably never wanted me here. Just invited me to be polite.”
Troy’s voice comes through louder. “Maybe she’s scared she won’t be what you expected.”
“I’m not expecting anything. I just want to see my mum.” My voice cracks.
“Hang in there, mate.”
“Yeah. Will you cover for me? I told Dave I’d be at your house.”
“No worries.”
“Thanks, Troy.” I wipe my wet eyes with the back of my hand.
“So, what’s it like where she lives?” asks Troy.
It’s getting harder for me to talk. There’s a lump in my throat that’s getting bigger and bigger, a picture I keep getting in my head of Mum walking away and a small voice that whispers, “She hates you.”
“Gotta go. Tell you more when I see you.” I hang up.
I give myself a minute to get it together, then I phone Dave to tell him that I’m staying the night at Troy’s.
After I’ve taken care of the phone calls, I go back to the front door of the house. There’s still no answer when I knock. I don’t know what else to do. My stomach grumbles, calls for attention. I haven’t eaten for ages. I sit on the front steps and eat a chocolate bar from my pack.
I know Mum’s in there. She’s expecting me. She asked me here. So why doesn’t she answer the door? Stuff her! I’ll wait here all night if I have to.
Around half past five, the mosquitoes attack. They cover my arms with itchy red bumps. I’ve eaten everything I’ve brought with me and I’m still starving. Didn’t expect to be here so long.
A light goes on in the house – not sure where, it’s probably in the kitchen. I pick up the shoe scraper and knock as loud as I can. No answer. Must be where I got my staying power. She’s determined not to answer the door and I’m determined not to leave until she does.
I creep all around the outside of the house, peering in the windows. Each one is framed with cobwebs and a couple are cracked. It wouldn’t be too hard to push the glass in, but I don’t. All the curtains are drawn, and it’s impossible to see which room the light is actually coming from. I wonder if she knows I am still here.
Then I smell food – something hot – smells like soup. It triggers a memory. A small boy sitting on a stool, watching his mother chop vegetables and toss them into a steaming pot. An involuntary tear slides down my cheek. The aroma of hot food wafts out to me, making my stomach growl. I shiver. The night air is moving in. An owl hoots. And I realise I’ve missed the last train home.
Hungry and cold, I retreat to the shed for the night. Now that I’ve come this far, I’m not going anywhere.
When it’s too dark to even look at Mum’s paintings, I curl up on a pile of sacks next to the cats and go to sleep, feeling even more confused than I was when I hopped on the bus this morning.
I’m woken by purring.
“Sorry, I don’t have food for you. I don’t even have anything left for myself.” I pat the mother cat.
I’m just about to stand up, when I hear the side door of the shed open. It’s Mum. It has to be.
I feel sick. I go hot then cold.
Now that I’m finally about to come face to face with her, I feel like I need more time. I need to buy myself a few extra minutes
. I lie down again and pretend to sleep; my right is eye open a slash so I can still watch.
She doesn’t notice me at first. She sits in front of one of her paintings and runs her brush lovingly over the canvas. After nearly every stroke, she stops to look at what she has done – as if each one has to be perfect. Her dark braided hair stretches down her back like a piece of rope. She shakes it every now and then, and it swings and sways against her, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. She doesn’t seem to be aware of anything around her.
Suddenly, she stiffens. Her brushstrokes get faster, as if she’s angry. The only time she stops is to dip her brush in the paint. She’s totally focused on what she’s doing, but still I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of either door without being seen.
I have a whole new set of questions for her. Why didn’t you answer the door yesterday – especially when you knew I was coming? Why did you pretend you weren’t home? Don’t you want me here? What did you expect me to do? Don’t you care that I came all this way to see you? Do you really care about me? My brain flings these angry questions that almost reach my lips, but I keep my mouth closed tightly so they can’t escape. I lie there watching.
After she finishes, she stands up. It’s only a matter of time before I’m found out. Not sure what to do, I close my eyes again. Footsteps come closer. I can’t stop myself from looking. I peer out from under half-closed lids.
Material from her skirt brushes against me as she kneels down. The contact makes my skin tingle. Her perfume wafts through my memory, making my chest tight.
I open my mouth, ready to start my explanations – to justify why I stayed. That’s how she’s made me feel – that I’m the one who shouldn’t be here, even though she invited me.
“Hi, Matt. You’re still here?” she says. She’s calm – as if I hadn’t spent hours yesterday knocking on her door, and she hadn’t spent all that time pretending I wasn’t there.
I don’t get it. She saw me. Why wouldn’t she answer her door?
A hand strokes my forehead. Bluff it, I tell myself. That’s what Troy would do. I open my eyes fully and sit up. Hurt and disappointment get the better of me.
“You heard me knocking, didn’t you? Why didn’t you open the door?” These are not what I imagined my first words to my mother would be, but I can’t stop them from spilling out.
She smiles. “I had the most awful migraine. Couldn’t get out of bed. I’m really sorry about that. I know you came a long way to see me.”
It doesn’t make sense. If she couldn’t get out of bed, who was sitting on the verandah yesterday, drinking coffee? It’s too much. Too many lies. I want to put my hands over my ears – to yell at her. Stop it! No more lies!
“You’d better come to the house. I’ll get you some breakfast. I’m not much of a cook,” she warns. “But I should be able to rustle up something.”
Now that I’m about to finally step inside her house, I hesitate. I don’t really know this person, even though she’s my mother.
My stomach growls as if to say, “Don’t be pathetic. I’m hungry.”
I look at the back of her, her long dark hair stretching down to her waist. Is she how I pictured her? Yes. Is this how I thought our reunion would be, after being apart for ten years? No. I guess the kid part of me hoped she’d take me in her arms and tell me how much she missed me and how glad she is that I’m here. Clearly, that’s not going to happen.
It’s awkward, we sort of know each other, but we don’t. She talks as if she has been my mother all along – like there isn’t a ten-year gap between us. “Mind the step. Go and wash your hands before you eat.” She points down the hallway. “First door on the left.”
“Soup,” I say. “You had soup last night.” I wipe my eye, as the little-boy memory creeps back into my head.
She turns to me. “Sorry, I ate all that.”
Strange – the way she doesn’t even mention that I spent the night in her shed, cold and hungry. She doesn’t even seem embarrassed about it. But the tone of her voice is calm and reasonable – not a bit crazy.
She takes me into the lounge room and goes to make breakfast. I look around at the high ceilings and exposed beams. The place is old but arty – different. A huge spider works on a web that reaches across from one beam to another. Mum comes back.
“That’s Charlie,” she says. “He’s my pet huntsman. Must think he’s a trapeze artist. He’s always swinging between the beams.”
I smile. Dave hates spiders. So that would be one area where they didn’t get along. Somehow, it makes me feel connected to her. We both like spiders.
“Great web, isn’t it? I don’t like to spoil his fun,” Mum says. “And I must admit, I’m not really a big one for housework.”
“Me neither,” I agree.
Mum laughs. She passes me a plate with toast and jam and sits in the chair across from me. It’s hard not to stare. What should I call her? Mum? Ms Matthews?
She seems to read my mind. “You don’t have to call me Mum, you know. You’re almost an adult now. You can call me Zora,” she says.
Dave hates me calling him by his first name. “I’m all right with Mum,” I say. I’ve longed to call someone Mum for such a long time.
We stare at each other. The silence is too hard. I try to think of something to say. “Dad doesn’t let me have toast for breakfast. Says I need something more substantial.” How dumb does that sound?
“Well, that’s your father for you. He would have read it in one of his books.”
I think of the shelves at home, lined with volumes of useless information. “Has he always been like that?”
Mum nods. “Even before we were married, he had an amazing collection. How to Find the Right Woman, How to Keep the Right Woman, How to Be Slim and Successful.”
“I think he’s still got that one.”
We both laugh. Zora takes the empty plate from me and looks at her watch. “You’d better make sure you don’t miss that train back to Melbourne. It’s the only one on a Sunday.”
But there’s so much I still have to find out about her.
“Mum, why don’t you live with us?
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t work, Matt.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m sick.”
“So Dad said. Big deal. Lots of sick people live with their families.”
She clings to my arm. “Matt, do you know anyone who’s sick? I mean really sick?”
Her words scare me. What if her illness is terminal? What if she knows she’s going to die and that’s why she stayed away?
The only person I know who has really been sick is Troy’s sister, Angie. But she doesn’t have something you can die from – not unless she eats the wrong foods. “Troy’s sister has allergies. She has to be careful with everything she eats. They reckon if she ate a peanut, she’d go into a coma and die.”
“That’s awful,” says Mum. “The poor girl.”
She still hasn’t answered my question, not really. There’s so much I need to know – about me, about her, about her and Dave. Why don’t they love each other any more? Why didn’t she ever contact me? Why didn’t she want me?
Mum takes my hand in hers and strokes my fingers. “Did you tell Dave you were coming?”
“No.” I like the physical contact with her. It brings me closer. “I rang him last night so he wouldn’t worry – told him I was staying at my mate’s place.”
Mum pulls her hand away and clasps her fingers together on her lap. I pick up my backpack. “I brought some stuff to show you.”
I take out the photo of my first day of school and pass it to her. She hugs it to her chest.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says. “Can I keep it?”
“If you like.” I pass over the painting I did of Dave. “I got first prize for this.”
“Really? Looks like you inherited some things from me. Have you kept on with your art?”
&n
bsp; “Sort of. Dave’s not too keen on me painting.” I wonder whether to tell her about the water tank, and decide against it. Don’t want her worrying that Dave didn’t bring me up right. Some people freak out when you mention police.
“Thanks for the card, by the way,” I say.
“I wrote you one every birthday, you know. But that’s the first I’ve ever sent. I kept every single card.”
Why did she wait till now before sending me one?
“Can I see the others?” I ask.
“Sure.”
She leaves the room. My head’s stuffed with questions, but I don’t want to scare her off. I have to be careful what I ask.
Mum comes back with a brown paper bag. “It might be best if you read these when you get home.”
I look at my watch. “Guess I’d better go.”
We both stand. She takes my hand again and holds it for a while. “I’m really glad you came. Promise you’ll come again,” she says.
I nod. “Bye, Mum.”
“Bye, Matt.”
As I walk off towards the station, I turn back hoping to see her wave from the verandah. But of course I can’t because of the peppercorn trees.
On the train I take out the brown paper bag with the cards she gave me.
Every single one of them is handmade. Each one has a painting on the front. There’s so much written inside that they seem more like letters than birthday cards.
The first one says:
Dear Matty,
Happy sixth birthday, my sweet boy. I wish I was there with you, holding you on my knee as you huff and puff out those candles like you did last year.
A mother should be there to celebrate her son’s birthday.
How is school? I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for your first day. Were you scared? Did Daddy take time off work to make sure you were okay? I bet he did. He’s always done everything right. Always the perfect parent, not like me.
I hope you have a beautiful cake and lots of little friends to help you celebrate. If I were there, I would have given you a dinosaur party with a big tyrannosaurus rex cake – the sharp tooth, he was always your favourite.